Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

The Syringe

    Sherlock eyes widened in understanding. "It's her. It must be. She's come for revenge."

John waited for an elaboration, but Sherlock didn't offer any, so he asked, "Who is she? How do you know it's her?"

"Eleanor Fernsby. Her brother was a serial killer, but also my previous dealer. I collected all the evidence needed to prove him guilty and handed it to the police," Sherlock elucidated. Although he knew it wasn't the most appropriate thing to do, John couldn't help but laugh.

"Did I say something amusing?"

John didn't answer his question. Instead, he replied with one of his own, "Do you arrest all your dealers? I mean, technically they're all doing illegal stuff, and you are, well, you know, a detective."

"Oh, no. I only bother myself when serious matters are involved. I am indeed a detective, but my time is way too precious to be wasted on banal drug dealers. But often, things can get quite interesting around them. My other former dealer played a part in one of my favorite kidnapping cases!" Sherlock said enthusiastically.

    "So drugs are not serious matters?"

   John thought Sherlock knew better than to shake his head, but he wasn't surprised when the detective did so. He hesitated, trying to the engage in the subject tactfully. "The thing is, if you arrest all the dealers, you will no longer be able to obtain any drugs." John said in a joking tone as he finally opted for a less solemn approach. He glanced at Sherlock, but the detective's expression remained blank.

"You know, John," Sherlock said at last, "I always manage to get what I want."

John smiled sadly. "I know."

  His eyes followed Sherlock as the detective bent down to take out a clean beaker in one of his lab cabinets. John's sad smile turned into an amused one as he pictured Sherlock replacing the kitchen drawers, treating the designer with a monologue about the uselessness of spice racks.

   For once, John could see Sherlock from above, and the view of his silky dark curls almost made John forget about the serious trouble they were in. Almost.

A beaker in hand, Sherlock rose to his full height, so John had to set his gaze somewhere else. Cursing his eyes for landing on Sherlock's Cupid bow lips, John looked up, only to lock eyes with the detective. His irises were a blend of blue and grey, and John found it difficult to conceal his blush.

   Sherlock didn't blink. He even forgot to analyze John's expression, too absorbed by the doctor's warm brown eyes as they stared at each other in complete silence.

   After a long moment, John awkwardly cleared his throat. When Sherlock smiled at him, John returned his smile, wondering if embarrassment was even part of the detective's emotion range. Nevertheless, he was glad that the awkwardness had melted away.

  John's smile vanished as soon as Sherlock picked up the syringe.

    "What are you doing?" he asked, trying to hide the distress from his tone.

"Testing it." Sherlock let a few drops drip into a beaker. "Never trust a potential criminal."

"What? You think she put explosives inside?"

Sherlock sneered. "Obviously, no. Just checking the percentage of the solution. Wouldn't want to overdose again," he said with a wink.

    "You're not actually going to use it, right?"

    "Maybe. If life gets too dull."

    "This isn't something you should joke about!" John snapped. He snatched the beaker away from Sherlock's grip and aimed at the syringe in his other hand, but Sherlock held it up high above their heads, taking advantage of his height to keep it out of the doctor's reach. John looked daggers at him, and was further irritated when he saw a glint of amusement in Sherlock's eyes.

   "Sherlock, give it to me." John said in an eerily calm voice.

   If Sherlock noticed the change in John's tone, which he most certainly did, considering his habit to take notes of the tiniest details that would be neglected by others, it didn't perturb him at all. "John, it's not going to make any difference," he said, trying to reason with the doctor, "If you throw it away, I'll simply get another. What do we gain with this?"

    "Time, Sherlock. We gain time. I know you won't go buy any until you've solved this case. Each day, each hour, each minute is a war I'm desperately trying to fight," John winced as he tasted the word war, but he didn't abandon his metaphor. "But you are the soldier on the battlefield. Sadly, you gave up fighting. You do not fire back, you let the enemy march on you, slowly, one foot in front of the other as each injection you take in destroys your body. What's left to do is to buy you time, Sherlock. That's all I can do."

John finally lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's. He studied him, but failed to determine whether or not he had made any progress. "Now, give it to me."

"No."

John exhaled loudly. "Sherlock. Please."

"There's no use to insist, John. I said no."

   Frustration and exasperation wasn't all John felt. Sherlock's irresponsibility for his own health worried him. He asked for the syringe one last time, and when Sherlock refused to let go of it, John seized his wrist and twisted it skillfully. A soft pained moan escaped Sherlock's throat. John looked away. He hated himself for doing this, but he knew it was necessary.

    "I didn't break any of your bones. Now, give my the syringe and I'll leave your wrist alone."

    Knowing he had the strength and aptitude to fight back yet not wanting to, Sherlock place the syringe on the kitchen counter. John released him and he walked out of the room without a word. John was sure Sherlock was furious at him, but if it meant a few days of rest for Sherlock's body, it was worth it.

    However, when Sherlock came back, his full length trench coat on, a scarf tied around his neck, his expression was indifferent.

   "John?"

   "Yeah?" John intentionally avoided Sherlock's gaze, which wasn't the easiest thing since the detective was staring right at him.

  "Stop letting emotions get the best of you. If you continue down this road, you're going to be the one needing a therapist."

   John flinched. Sherlock questioned him with a look, but didn't force upon the matter when he kept his mouth shut.

  "Let's go home," they said at the exact same time. They both looked up, and Sherlock's smile was a mirror of his own.

   Sherlock and John walked out of the flat, the wind fluttering their coats.

   "Let's see what fun Eleanor Fernsby  prepared for us."

   "But first, sleep," John reminded him.

   "Or what? You'll put melatonin in my tea again?"

    John smirked, "Possibly, but you're too clever. You'll probably find out by the way I pour the tea, or the shape of the spoon I choose."

   Sherlock chuckled and they jumped in a cab.